No Interruptions
by DreamofInception
Summary: Five times Bellamy Blake was interrupted and one time he wasn't. Modern AU. One-shot.


_Here's a one shot based on Bellamy and Clarke and the various setting of war! I know I'm sorry Nowhere Found isn't complete, but I just like playing with these characters so much and exploring them, so I got carried away!_ _Hope you guys enjoy it!_

 _Also, thanks so much for the nominations for the Bellarke Fanfiction Awards! And congrats to the winner! Xoxo._

* * *

 **Five Times Bellamy Blake Was Interrupted And One Time He Wasn't**

 **i**.

They win Homecoming. Fucking _h_ _omecoming_.

Bellamy grunts, his chest rising in his uniform as Clarke pulls him closer. He huddles her against his bedroom door, his hand searching for the doorknob in the dimness of his home.

"Bellamy," she whispers, her lips trailing his jaw. " _Homecoming_."

He turns the handle and they stumble inside, his body colliding with hers in a tangle of limps. She feels soft, her figure filled with lust as she murmurs his name, his victory, shoving him towards the bed.

He falls onto the mattress, grinning as she straddles his hips.

"Congratulations, Mr. Quarterback," she teases.

Bellamy kisses her, his sweetest victory. "Will I be receiving a prize?"

Clarke smirks, rolling into him as she peels off her blouse. She smells like alcohol and triumph, the delicious scent that has crowded his senses for two years, constant and heavenly in his mind.

She leans forward, her chest pressing against his as she removes the belt from his pants.

"I've got a few ideas." She smiles, and he chuckles, because she's so damn glorious. "But first, I want you to - "

There's a slamming of his front door, and an excited scream fills the house.

"Bellamy!" Octavia's footsteps echo towards them. "Where's my superstar brother?"

He sighs, his forehead leaning against Clarke's chest. He kisses her skin, and she laughs, ruffling his hair with her fingers before pulling her blouse over her head. He curses, wants nothing more than to stay in this dark room with her.

"Fucking Octavia," he groans.

Clarke presses her lips against his. "I'll make it up to you. Promise."

And she does, she _really_ does, and he never appreciated Octavia more in his entire life.

* * *

 **ii**.

Clarke Griffin is the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.

She has those blue eyes that he falls into every time he looks at her, the blonde waves of hair that he holds as he kisses her, as he lays her beneath him, warm and filling and _home_.

"Beautiful," he mumbles, pulling away from her to remove his shirt. "Perfect, even."

Clarke laughs. Another charming sound. He grins, settling himself on top of her, their bare chests connecting as he presses his lips to hers, soft and sweet in her touch.

His fingers skim her stomach, and she releases breaths of pleasure as he descends lower down her abdomen. She squirms underneath him, moaning into his mouth, and, _fuck_ , he really loves this woman.

Bellamy touches the waist of her jeans, and she hums in disapproval.

"Bell," she whines, but it sounds more of desperation. "I have homework."

He chuckles. "It's the first week of school."

"It's the first week of _university_."

Bellamy sighs, dropping his head in the crook of her neck. Her skin is warm, the sheets light around them in the coziness of her dorm room, filled with medical text books and study groups and, when Bellamy is over, _sex._

He rests his hand near the zipper of her jeans, pressing into the material.

Clarke gasps and clutches his shoulders.

"You sure you want to quit now?" he teases.

She writhes beneath him, struggling, her face red and her fingers digging into his skin. He raises his eyes in the amusement of her efforts to refuse him, and he rubs his palm harder over her wetness.

"One time," she wheezes, her breath shallow. "And that's it."

Bellamy grins. "Deal."

He kisses her, hard, his lips crashing onto hers in passion. She pulls him closer as he continues to feel her, his hand slipping into her jeans and brushing the tenderness of her underwear.

He pushes a finger inside her, and she moans his name, begging.

"Clarke!"

Bellamy groans at the sound of a voice from the dorm hall, his finger slowing inside her. He hears knocking, harsh and desperate, the fist on the door crashing repeatedly onto the wood.

"Ignore them," Clarke whispers, pulling him forward.

"Clarke." There's more knocking, more worrisome in the tone. " _Clarke_."

She curses, muttering explicits and apologies as she rolls from Bellamy's embrace. She kisses his forehead and pulls on her shirt as she walks towards the door, pulling it open to a red-faced man, nervous.

"Finn?" She narrows her eyebrows. "What the hell is going on?"

He says something about the World Trade Centers, something about destruction, and Bellamy spends the rest of the night holding Clarke tightly in his arms, reminding her how much he loves her.

* * *

 **iii**.

One year. That's how long it took.

One year for him to leave.

"So." Clarke exhales deeply as she looks at him. "You have everything you need?"

He intertwines their hands, kissing her palm. He wants to say no, he doesn't everything he needs, because that would mean bringing her with him, but he can't do that and it hurts him so damn much.

"Yeah," he mumbles.

She nods, blinking rapidly. "Okay."

He stares at her, eyes scanning and memorizing the lines on her forehead, the beauty marks on her skin. It wasn't easy telling her, telling _anyone_ , but Clarke crushed him, begging for him to change his mind and to stay with her, to never leave.

But he was leaving. As scared and miserable as that makes him.

"Come here."

Clarke sniffles, her eyes narrowing in sadness as she steps towards him. She wraps her arms around his waist, leaning her head against his chest as he encircles her in his embrace.

He presses his lip to her forehead. "I won't be gone long."

"Promise?" she asks, voice muffled by his shirt.

Bellamy sighs. He doesn't say anything, doesn't comment or tease, only holds her tighter in his arms. He's supposed to be gone months, but months can turn to years, and, in war, even only hours can turn to death.

He told himself not to think about that. Clarke told him not to think about that.

She pulls away from him, gripping his elbows. The tears that mark her skin make him weary and sick, and he thinks of the night before, huddled in her dorm room in the early hours of the morning, attaching themselves to each other.

He doesn't want to let go, never has. Loving this girl has been his entire life.

"I know . . . " Clarke sighs, closing her eyes. "I know the statistics, what happens out there. I get that. But whether you do come back, or you don't," she releases a small sob, and it electrifies him.

"I'll always be yours, Bellamy Blake. And you'll always be mine."

The airport is quiet around them, and he reaches forward, cupping her face in his hands and kissing her.

Her lips are wet with tears, salty and sweet. He rubs his thumb across her cheeks, wiping the wetness from her skin and pulling her closer to him. He deepens the kiss, opening his mouth and letting her in, savouring her.

Clarke sighs against him, placing her palms on the side of his neck. Her touch is gentle, soft, trailing her fingers in his hair and threading through his curls. She melts into him, into his lips, sweetening him with her mouth on his.

The radio crackles throughout the airport, and they call his flight, preparing to board.

Bellamy pulls away from her, resting his forehead against hers. "I love you, Clarke Griffin. Forever."

She whimpers and nods. "Forever," she echoes. "I promise."

He kisses her forehead, reminds her to tell Octavia not to burn down the house, mentions how he'll send her letters, and how he'll think of her everyday, every second and hour and lifetime.

He doesn't tell her that he'll see her soon, though, doesn't know if he ever will.

* * *

 **iv**.

He comes home four years later.

And he fucks everything up.

Maybe because he's fucked up, because the war stained the visions of blood and death in his mind, of broken bones and shattered skulls planted in the pile of dust around him.

People worry about him. He shares his apartment with Jasper and Miller, takes a job at a local mechanic shop that Raven offers. They ask him questions, give him pitying looks, hesitant to speak of the scar on his shoulder.

And Octavia worries about him, yells at him when she finds him wasted, hooking onto a girl in the parking lot. Because that's what he does, he drinks, he sleeps, and he fucks.

He fucks a lot of girls. Girls who aren't Clarke Griffin.

Bellamy ended things with her two years into his tour, reminded her that they were on two different sides of the world. He told her that she should move on, focus on becoming a doctor and to live a better life without him.

And, after months of refusing to give up on him, she eventually did.

He tries not to think of her, of the stories Octavia tells him, how she's with Finn Collins from her program, how they're the perfect portrait of success. He tries not to look at her, when he sees her at the bar or local gatherings, tries not to stare at her lips.

He tries not to love her, but he does, still fucking does.

"Hey, baby." Roma saunters into his kitchen, her bra slipping from her shoulders. "You're up early."

Bellamy presses his hands on the counter. "I'm used to it."

Roma hums in content, crossing the robe over her body. Her limbs are stretched in exhaustion, mouth raw with kisses and sex, the measurement of Bellamy's intimacy. She walks towards him and slides her hands over his back.

She presses her lips to his skin. "Come back to bed."

Bellamy closes his eyes; erases Clarke from his mind as he turns in her arms. She smells like cigarettes and foolishness, a scent he's been accustomed to for months, and he leans forward, kissing her roughly.

"Why make the journey?" he breathes against her mouth, lifting her onto the counter.

Roma giggles and wraps her legs around his waist. "You're very, very bad."

He smirks, connecting their lips as he presses into her. She gives him what he wants, gives him the distraction, but not what he needs. What he needs isn't coming back to him, and he kisses her more violently at the thought, gripping onto her hair.

The closing of the front door echoes the apartment, and footsteps enter the kitchen.

"Oh."

Bellamy frowns. He pulls away from Roma, her breathing harsh as she licks her swollen lips. He knows that voice, has heard in happiness and despair and concern. He ruffles his hair and turns towards the front door.

Clarke stares at him, her face red.

"Sorry," she mumbles, and the warmth in his chest begins to darken. "I didn't know - I thought Jasper was - "

Roma rolls her eyes. "He's not here. Neither is Miller."

Clarke nods, her hand tightening around her purse. She pushes a strand of blonde curls behind her ear, and his fingertips burn with want, with need, remembering the tenderness of her hair.

"Okay," she says, and she looks at him, her eyes a mixture of pain and sorrow.

She turns then, leaving the apartment as Roma reaches for him, trailing her lips on his neck as he thinks of blonde hair and blue eyes.

* * *

 **v**.

Jake Griffin is killed on a Saturday.

He was driving his truck, the vehicle that he drove Clarke to her first date in, the windows down and the music low on the stereo. There was a wrong turn, and a car speeding through a red light, and Jake Griffin was dead, neck shattered against the leather.

One moment. One moment and Clarke lost a father, Bellamy lost a role model.

He finds her after the burial, leaning against the tree where they had their first kiss. The world seemed hopeful then, not dark and broken, not filled with memories of war and lost loved ones.

She glances at him when he approaches her and scoffs.

"I didn't think you were going to come," she mutters.

Bellamy stares at her. There are fresh stains of tears on her cheeks, burning into her skin in a permanent mark. She looks so small, so tired, eyes swollen around the edges.

"I wanted to call. I just didn't know - "

"What to say?" She shakes her head, kicking the dirt on the ground. "I get it."

There's a whisper of wind, and then a silence that surrounds them.

Bellamy breathes heavily. Everything hurts. He thinks of the summers spent at the Griffin cottage, with swimming and barbeques, Clarke's bare skin by the fire and Jake's eagerness to play another round of cards.

Hurt. He thinks of the war, of leaving her behind, and it hurts. Looking at her hurts, thinking about her hurts. But, of everything, what hurts him the most is seeing her like _this_ , more lost and damaged than he is.

He steps towards her, filling the silence with the snap of a twig.

"Can I tell you something?"

Clarke looks up at him. Her eyes are wide, beautiful, and she straightens herself against the side of the tree. Her lips are parted and her gaze is fierce when she nods for him.

"Well." Bellamy stands in front of her, and their arms graze. His skin hasn't touched hers in years. "It was sophomore year, and I came to your for the first time. You wanted to introduce me to your parents."

She grins, and his heart flutters. "I remember," she whispers.

Bellamy nods. "It was nice, that's what I told you after," he murmurs. "But, what I didn't tell you, is that while you went to the washroom, your father pulled me aside. I thought he was going to yell at me, you know, maybe even threaten me about breaking your heart."

She rolls her eyes, shaking her head.

"So, he brought me over, and he asked me what the hell I was doing with you." He gazes at her, and the tears reappear on her skin. "I told him not to worry, that I wouldn't do anything to you, and he called me insane. Called me fucking insane, actually. Told me that it was me who he was worried about, how you were going to break my heart."

Clarke releases a shuddering breath. "He said that?"

"Yeah," he mumbles, and, _fuck_ , he wants to touch her, wants to hold her so bad. "He told me you were the strongest, kindest, smartest, most beautiful person that he knew. And how I would go crazy, living my life to try and be as good as you."

Clarke stares at him. A moment of appreciation enters her gaze, softening her, and then it ends. The pain comes back, and her cheeks tremble, her breathing unsteady as she shakes her head.

"I'm going to miss him so much," she whimpers.

And then she's in his arms, her fingers clutching him as he pulls her in.

She cries against the crook of his neck, her lips pressing into his skin as she releases her torment. His heart feels heavy, desperate, and he squeezes her, cupping the back of her head.

"You're okay," he whispers into her hair. "I'm sorry."

And he is. He's sorry for being an asshole, a fucking piece of filth. He's sorry for Jake, for not being the man he needed to be to love his daughter. For not being enough for her, just as he warned him.

His arms tighten around her, and she whimpers.

"Clarke?"

Bellamy sighs. He closes his eyes, rubbing his fingers along the top of her arms as he loosens her in his embrace. He knows that voice, know who it belongs to, and he clenches his fists at his side.

Clarke breathes shakily, chewing on her bottom lip as she pulls away.

"There you are," Finn states as he approaches them, his eyes concerning. "Your mother has been looking for you."

And then it starts all over, the endless cycle of loving Clarke Griffin, and everything hurts more than it should.

* * *

 **+i**.

He fucking hates Finn Collins.

And that's why he punched him in the God damn face.

" _Idiot_ ," Octavia muttered as she placed a pack of ice on his hand. "You're such an idiot."

Bellamy winced, his skin humming under the coldness. Finn's jaw was a lot harder than he thought it would be, and Bellamy was a lot more _drunk_ than he thought he would be, and so he bruised his God damn fist, humiliation and all.

"I'm not the idiot. He is," he clarified.

Octavia shook her head. "Try explaining that to Clarke."

But he didn't have to, because she comes to him three days later, her face red with rage.

Clarke breathes heavily when he opens his front door, her eyes blue and fierce in the dimness of his hallway. Her hands are balled into fists, her blonde curls loose around her shoulders, and she walks past him, entering the kitchen of his apartment.

"You're a fucking idiot."

And, okay, maybe Octavia was right.

"Clarke - "

"You punched my ex-boyfriend. In the face." She crosses her arms over her chest. "Why?"

Bellamy looks at her, sighing deeply. He didn't expect her to enjoy the situation, to understand the circumstances of her ex-boyfriend punching her other ex-boyfriend. But she looks so confused, like she doesn't get it, and he narrows his eyes.

"You know why," he presses.

"What?" She steps towards him, her eyes illuminating the darkness of his kitchen. "Because he hurt my _feelings_?"

"Is that not a good enough reason?"

Clarke gaps, shaking her head. She doesn't understand. Because it doesn't matter, never did, and no matter how hard he tried to keep his distance, she was always near him, always at the same bar or the same party. And she was always with Finn.

And then he found out that he cheated on her. And, yeah, so he fucking punched him in the face.

"No. It's not," she hisses. She pushes her palm towards him, marking his chest with her finger. "You're not allowed to do that. You're not allowed to _ignore_ me for seven years and then decide to care. That's not fair."

"You think I don't care about you?"

"Don't ask me that," she whispers. "Don't you fucking dare."

Bellamy swallows thickly, and everything starts to hurt again. He releases a shuddering breath, gently placing his hand over hers on his chest. He peels her fingers from his skin and places them at her side, her flesh warm against his.

"I care about you, Clarke." Because, fuck, he cares about her more than anything in this pathetic life. "I never stopped."

She frowns, shaking her head. "Then you shouldn't have punched him."

"He cheated on you."

"And you _left_ me."

He stares at her, the pain in his chest rising. His ears begin to ring a sadistic rhythm, constant and loud in his head as she looks at him, the torment in her eyes reflecting his own.

She looks broken. And so does he.

Clarke breathes heavily, stepping away from him. The dimness of the kitchen creates a silhouette around her figure, black and filled with dust and false hope. She closes her eyes, her lips parting in a soft whimper.

"You left for four years." Each word shatters him. "And you never came back."

He nods desperately. "I did come back."

"Not to me," she whispers. "Not for us."

It's silent. Every inch of him burns with the truth. He exhales deeply, clenching his hands into fists and rubbing them across his forehead. He see's Clarke, young and beautiful underneath him, and the nightmares of the war above them.

Bellamy tightens his jaw. "I did what was right."

" _Bullshit_."

"Fuck, Clarke!" He shakes his head, because she still doesn't get it. "I went to war. I watched people die. I couldn't - " He sighs, closing his eyes. "I didn't want to burden you," he strains, and she laughs without humour, glancing at the ceiling. "I didn't want you to see the things I've seen."

She clenches her eyes closed. "Fuck you."

"Clarke - "

He steps towards her, and she pushes at his chest. "You asshole. All I wanted was _you_." She shoves him again, but he doesn't move, doesn't pull away. "I worried about you every God damn day."

He notices her tears in the dimness. "I know," he whispers.

She presses against his chest, and he catches her wrists in his grasp. "All I wanted was for you to come home."

"Hey. _Hey._ " He releases her, cupping her face in his hands and steadying her. "I'm home."

Clarke shudders, her body melting into him as he touches her, his thumbs tracing the wetness on her cheeks. He looks down at her, this broken and beautiful love, and he doesn't move, doesn't breathe, doesn't do anything except hold her tighter, love her deeper.

She stares at him, and he sees everything.

He sees his high school, their first date under the stars and her mouth sweet on his. He sees the days spent with her father, nights spent with his sister, always touching and feeling, always _being_. There's the years before the war, the years during and after, and how different they are, how different he is.

But then her eyes soften, and he feels the same, feels like that dumb-struck teenager all over again.

"I tried so hard to let you go," she whispers, shuddering against him. "Did you know that?"

 _Yes_. "No."

She closes her eyes, and the tears become thicker on her skin. He wipes at them, caressing her face, pulling loose strands of hair from her forehead. She breathes into him and opens her eyes, a dark shade of blue.

"You left, Bellamy," she murmurs, tone fracturing with emotion. "You're the one who broke my heart. Finn just tried to put it back together."

He licks his lips. "Could he?"

Clarke glances at his mouth, and the world stops.

"He didn't have a chance."

The words pierce him, raw and desperate and _real_. His breathing becomes heavier, his hands become softer against her, and he leans closer, breathing her scent and whispering her name.

"Why not?" he asks her.

She smiles in the darkness, and he doesn't feel the pain anymore.

"Because." She rests her hands on top of his, squeezing them. "I'll always be yours, Bellamy Blake. And you'll always be mine."

He doesn't hear anything, doesn't feel anything when he leans towards her, clutching her in his embrace and pressing his lips against hers.

She gasps, and he shudders, because she still feels so perfect.

Clarke melts into him, her fingers trailing his skin and leaving heated paths amongst his flesh. She kisses him, mouth parting under hers, releasing her control and pouring her desperation into him.

She grips the hair on his neck, and they stumble across the kitchen.

She mewls when he presses her against the counter, his body wrapping around hers in contrast. There's a new skill to their intimacy, an angle that they've never used, never done, and she rolls her hips into him.

" _Clarke_ ," he mumbles into her mouth.

He groans, bending forward and settling his hands around her waist. He lifts her in his arms, pushing the objects from the counter and placing her on top of the surface. She locks her arms around his neck and pulls him towards her, wrapping her legs around his hips.

Bellamy exhales sharply, and _fuck_ , he wants her so bad, he _needs_ her.

She moans against him, and he knows she needs him too.

He touches the hem of her shirt, pulling away from her to remove it. Her breasts rise with her breath, and they seem larger, and her stomach seems more toned, and she feels so different and so familiar.

God, he fucking missed her.

He becomes desperate, longing, and he rips the shirt from his own body. She caresses his skin as he trails his lips along her jaw, reaching between them to rub his fingers against the centre of her jeans.

She whimpers and presses herself into him. Everything seems tighter and heavier. She traces her touch along his scars, and he shakes his head, deepening his hold on her.

She gasps, clutching the counter top.

"Bellamy," she rasps. " _Now_."

He kisses her, slipping his hand from her jeans to unbutton them. He pulls them halfway down her thighs, groaning when he reaches for his own, pushing his pants down with her feet. Her thong is wet when he feels them, and he mutters her name, freeing his member.

Bellamy looks at her then, and she nods, maintaining his gaze as he pushes himself into her.

She moans, loud, bringing him close and dropping her head against the cupboards.

" _Shit_ ," she heaves.

He breathes deeply, revealing in the feeling of her stretching around him. He hasn't felt her for seven years, hasn't kissed her or loved her, and he leans forward, pinning her arms above her head as he presses his lips against hers.

He fucks her, hard, desperate, pushing into her as she cries of pleasure. He wants to take his time, to relive her skin, but he's missed her so God damn much, and his thrusts become thicker and exploding with passion.

She screams his name, screams her bliss.

"Bellamy. _Bellamy_."

The cupboards shake under their pressure, and he releases her wrists from his embrace. He places his palms on the surface of the counter, supporting himself, groaning as he deepens himself into her.

And he breathes her in out, exhales her out, filling himself with image of Clarke Griffin, beautiful and uninterrupted in front of him. And even five days later, when he begs her to give him another chance, does she deny. And six months later, when she curses him for being good and kisses him with her love.

And, it's not until years later, after he tells her about stories of the war and finally gets down on one fucking knee. After they get married under the stars, proclaim their forevers, vowing to spend eternity.

It isn't until then, and only then, where he forgets about the scars and the nightmares, when he's home, no interruptions.

* * *

 _And there it is! I hope you guys liked it._

 _Just an FYI, I'm going to be writing a bit of Oneshots before I continue with Nowhere Found because I have a real big problem of Writer's Block right now! So if you guys want me to write a specific scenario or setting, let me know, and I'll write it for sure! Have an awesome weekend!_

 _And - oh yeah! Happy Independence Day to the American readers! And, for my fellow Canadians, I hope you guys enjoyed Canada Day, I know I did ! Xoxo._


End file.
